


There Inside Your Heart

by Claire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent due to Sex Pollen, M/M, Sex Pollen, Trope Bingo Round 2, implied Derek/Stiles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, sex pollen; who knew that was actually a thing?"</p><p>In which sex pollen is accidentally created, and Peter and Chris are the ones affected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Inside Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Trope Bingo square 'Sex Pollen'.
> 
> Title taken from a quote by Ritu Ghatourey: You can change your mind, you can change your decision, but you can't change what's there inside your heart.
> 
> Beta'ed by Temaris, who wrangled my word choice, but couldn't prise my U's from my hands, so British spelling abounds *\o/*

"So, sex pollen; who knew that was actually a thing?"

Stiles' voice is light, but Chris doesn't need to be a wolf to hear the edge of hysteria under the words, doesn't need to hear an elevated heartbeat to work out the source of the plants and the jars and the containers scattered over the kitchen bench. He doesn't know what they were trying to make, doesn't know what they were trying to accomplish, but he sure as hell knows what the outcome was, can feel it all over his body, can feel it pouring off the man standing behind him.

"Stiles--"

But Stiles isn't listening, is too busy looking between Chris and Peter to hear any words. Too busy looking while managing to not actually _look_ , without letting his eyes wander to the myriad bite marks and claw marks that Chris knows litter both of them. And certainly without letting them wander to the bruises that dip beneath the jeans that they had both managed to drag on when the door opened and shouts of surprise pulled him and Peter apart.

Stiles' gaze is still darting between the two of them, but it's Peter that moves first, taking a step towards the boy with a growl sitting low in his throat, threatening even in its softness. Taking a step and meeting Derek's eyes as his nephew moves in front of Stiles, a hand reaching back to wrap around Stiles' wrist and matching growl crashing against Peter's in the air as Derek's eyes flash red.

The moment seems to stretch into hours, and it's Peter that caves first, the growl breaking off with a snap as he turns away from Derek, his eyes flickering around the room, until they rest on the floor next to where Chris is standing.

Chris picks the shirt up, holding it out to Peter and trying not to remember taking it off him, trying not to remember pressing Peter over the bench and tugging until buttons gave way. And he's definitely not remembering the way Peter's hands pulled at his belt until cool air hit overheated skin, the way Peter's fingers wrapped around him, sliding over hard flesh and begging Chris to _just fuck me already--_

It's the tug that makes Chris realise he hasn't let go of the shirt, both his and Peter's fingers bunched in the fabric, a link between them. Peter's looking at him, and there's a small furrow between his brow that Chris wants to soothe away, wants to run over with his fingers, with his tongue. Chris drops his grip on the shirt, leaving it hanging from Peter's fingers. A beat passes, two, and Chris can't tell if the look in Peter's eyes is hurt or want or hate. He kind of thinks it's a combination of all of them.

But whatever it was in Peter's eyes is gone as he turns away, shrugging on the shirt and buttoning it, each motion hiding more of the marks that still adorn Peter's skin, even with the wolf's healing. And each one of them, each scratch, each bite, each finger-shaped bruise, belongs to Chris just as much as it does to Peter, branding Chris' name onto Peter's skin in a way that will exist long after the marks have healed.

Peter doesn't look at him as he reaches out for the leather jacket lying over the back of a chair, thrown there only minutes after they'd walked into the kitchen, after the barely civil discussion had become nothing more than want and heat and the need to get skin against skin.

The jacket stays in Peter's hand as he turns towards the door, his fingers gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white, and Chris knows that there are going to be five crescent shaped holes in the leather before Peter even takes a step.

Peter's closer to the door with each breath Chris takes, closer to being out of the house and gone. There are words in Chris' throat, hard and heavy and jagged, and wanting to ask Peter to stop, to _stay_ , but he doesn't know if he could speak them even if they weren't surrounded by the kids, by the wolves, by Chris' _daughter_.

And then the moment is gone. The moment is gone because Peter is gone, edging around everyone until he's out of the door and slipping into the night.

The silence Peter leaves behind is hot and oppressive, and Chris knows every single wolf standing in his kitchen can hear just how hard his heart is beating, even if none of them are meeting his eyes.

Allison is the only one looking at him, and he feels so fucking _tired_ under her gaze.

"I'm going to bed, and I want all of this stuff gone by the morning." His voice sounds rough, even to his own ears, but it's still easier than saying the other words that are trying to make their way to the surface. Easier than _what did you make?_ and _what were you thinking?_ and _do you have any fucking idea what you've done--_

"And, Allison, next time you decide to offer up our kitchen in the name of whatever the hell this was, do me a favour and don't."

"Dad--" Allison's voice is soft, her hand flexing by her side like she wants to reach out to him but isn't quite sure how.

Chris knows that he should say something, to tell her that it's all okay, but he can't. "Later, Allison--" Because all Chris can think about is how Peter felt under him. How he arched up when Chris pushed into him, head back and throat bared and keening softly until Chris was flush against him. How he took everything Chris gave and still demanded more, until he spilled himself in Chris' grip, sharp and right in a way Chris never thought he'd feel again.

"Please," he adds, when he sees her about to respond, when he sees all the questions in her eyes that he doesn't know if he has the answers to. And because he's not doing this here, not surrounded by his daughter and her friends, not when the only thing running through his mind is how _good_ Peter felt wrapped around him, how perfect it was emptying himself inside the other man.

He hears the clean-up start as soon as he leaves the kitchen, overlaid with hushed voices murmuring his and Peter's names, and comments that are slowly lost to the ether as he heads up the stairs and closes his bedroom door behind him.

His bed is calling his name in a luring siren call, but he needs the shower more. Needs it because he can feel Peter on him, sticky and _there_ and marking Chris on the outside just as surely as Chris marked him on the inside.

He drops his clothes where he stands, jeans and shorts kicked to one side as he walks towards the shower, absently wondering if the shirt that's still abandoned on the kitchen floor, a victim of Peter's claws, is salvageable.

The water is as hot as he can stand it as Chris steps under the spray, running over him and washing the traces of him and Peter down the drain. The marks are still harsh against his water-reddened skin when he finally steps out of the shower, scattered over him and reflected back in the mirror. Meeting his own gaze in the reflection, Chris carefully wraps a hand around his upper arm, his fingers over the shallow claw marks scored into his flesh. Scored into him by a grip that had tightened around his arm as Peter had urged him on with _yes--_ and _harder--_ and _more--_

Turning away from the mirror, Chris pads back into the bedroom, scrubbing a towel over his hair roughly before throwing it back to land next to the shower.

He doesn't bother to pull back the covers, just drops onto the bed, still damp skin sticking slightly to the fabric under him. Dragging a hand through his hair, Chris stares at the ceiling for long moments, watching shadows play across the paint in an intricate dance before finally closing his eyes and letting the howl of the wolf outside lull him to sleep.


End file.
